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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534063">a Supended Moment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo'>GwiYeoWeo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Devil May Cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Feels, M/M, Nostalgia, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, soft vergil is hnnngghh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:48:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>But it is not the building that makes the home, nor is it the fact that it is a place where he can rest his wings and lay down his head and fear nothing but the promise of a tomorrow. It is not even the memories that mark these halls, when he had only been a fraction of himself, coming to Dante as a stranger with the vow of a hunt worthy of the legendary demon hunter. </p>
  <p>It is not the wood or brick or nails that lay the foundation and certainly not the romanticism and history that ties it all together. </p>
  <p>Home is Dante himself. </p>
</blockquote>It's a slow day at Devil May Cry, and Vergil decides to read in the lobby. Dante takes the opportunity to find his new napping spot.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>216</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Spardacest Server Fics and Art</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a Supended Moment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron_Winter/gifts">Iron_Winter</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thanks for the prompt, iron, they're adorable</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It's a slow day, which isn't saying much considering Dante's business practice doesn't bring much business in the first place. He could, though, as demon hunting's practically an OSHA violation in of itself, and the risk of death tends to pay lucratively for the few hunters that will take on a job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But today has been </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> slow, the phone ringing for no one and from no one — not even the telemarketers or robot callers looking to scam people out of their credit card numbers. Not even Patty has rang in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, is nice, as Vergil never failed to hear the girl's shrill voice and bratty demands resounding from the receiver, even if he's across the shop. The prospect of quiet peace is why he’s deigned to sit in the lobby, perched on the old couch — that Dante refuses to replace because “It adds character, Verge” — with his legs crossed one over the other, an anthology of short stories and old legends cradled in his hands. Sometimes, even Vergil considers a change of scenery, like a break from the small library he’s made for himself out of Dante’s many spare rooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The seats are worn from use and age, the color faded and stained with grease and blood and who knows what else, and no doubt he’d be sore from the uneven springs if not for the fact he’s sat on and slept on much worse. The air has a permanent odor of gunpowder and old food, mixed in with something musty and stale, the yellowed wallpaper and mismatched decor an eyesore. But the atmosphere is surprisingly pleasant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it is home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sights, the smells, the drone of cars and the skipping notes of the half-broken jukebox, are all home. It’s a concept that Vergil only dreamed of ever having again, in between high-wired winks of sleep and nightmares of a mangled childhood when he wasn’t hacking away at Mundus’ demons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s grounded to the reality of this grace by Dante, the incarnation of all his hopes and dreams shattered and re-formed, a monument made into flesh of Vergil’s sins and transgressions and the abounding forgiveness colliding with it all. Would Vergil be a man of more sentiments, he’d cry at the profoundness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it is not the building that makes the home, nor is it the fact that it is a place where he can rest his wings and lay down his head and fear nothing but the promise of a tomorrow. It is not even the memories that mark these halls, when he had only been a fraction of himself, coming to Dante as a stranger with the vow of a hunt worthy of the legendary demon hunter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not the wood or brick or nails that lay the foundation and certainly not the romanticism and history that ties it all together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home is Dante himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is the lazy roll of his shoulders when he pretends he’s worn out from a simple extermination job, dark red ichor oozing off his ridiculous leather jacket and staining the bandages he keeps wrapped around his hands and wrists, a lazy but content grin in place of the false smile of crafted bravado he’s worn for the past twenty-odd years. It is the curious way he tends to Ebony and Ivory, polishing and cleaning each little component with such precise hands and care, dismantling and reassembling them with a soft efficiency that one would not associate with the flamboyant and brutish strength that is his. It is the messy hair and vulnerable eyes that gaze upon Vergil, whenever they let down their walls and seek each others’ warmth to make up for lost days and broken times, when he creeps into Vergil’s study and quietly invades his older brother’s personal space, making room for himself under an arm or on his lap or just at his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Vergil is just as starved for his brother as is Dante. It took him too many years and too much blood to realize it — nay, he's always known, but had just chosen to ignore it in favor of his goals — and he isn’t so proud to refute that. It's why he's even here right now, taking advantage of the slow crawling day to quietly bask in the presence of Dante, catching the subtle scent of sulfur and heat that comes with the territory of demons. But there is something utterly familiar with his brother's scent, something distinct that keeps Vergil grounded rather than on high alert, a reassurance that there is no enemy but only family. And love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tragic, when all Vergil ever wanted was to be protected and loved and all he had to do was to keep Dante by his side, when nearly all his life he's done the opposite. Yet cathartic, knowing he's the rest of his life to make up for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vergil flips a page, coming to the end of a folktale of a King's hubris and the consequenting curse, when he hears Dante's chair creak. Little brother must have woken from his scheduled nap then, a risqué magazine his choice of a sleeping eye mask. Vergil doesn't move his gaze, however, more interested in reaching the conclusion of the story than he is to know where Dante's headed to. Knowing him, probably to the bathroom or to fetch the old pizza in the fridge; either way, he'll be back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when the footsteps get closer rather than farther, Vergil is hardly surprised to see the shadow of his brother loom over his book. He expects it when Dante plops himself on the couch, the springs groaning and dipping at the added weight, and slightly leans into the warmth when Dante presses himself into Vergil's shoulder, returning the touch with his own silent acknowledgment. He even expects it when Dante worms a hand around his back, and Vergil moves just a bit from the couch to accommodate and let little brother wrap his arms around his waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when there's a nudge that turns into a </span>
  <em>
    <span>push, </span>
  </em>
  <span>when Dante's weight turns playfully overbearing on his shoulder, Vergil doesn't know what game he's playing at. There's the very valid possibility that Dante is simply bored, finding a way to pester Vergil for his attention and affection. But he's made no attempt to snatch the book, no comment about jealousy or greed, when it would be a surefire way to turn Vergil's attention to Dante. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Vergil tests a theory and lets Dante do things his way, lets the weight slowly topple him over until Dante has practically pushed him down onto the couch. He swings his legs onto the seats, has his knees bent slightly to prop his feet over the other end and scoots to rest his head against the armrest. Dante lifts his weight just enough for Vergil to finish accommodating to the new position before he just. Sprawls himself across Vergil's chest like an overgrown cat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, so this was his goal then: a new napping spot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hello, Dante," Vergil finally says, a bemused smile coming easily, as he looks down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Vergil." Dante responds in kind with a lazy grin, nothing but softness cradling his eyes as he gazes up from Vergil's chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no explanation for his antics, and Vergil doesn't ask. He doesn't need to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers, in their innocence of youth, the countless afternoons Dante had done exactly just this, wiggling his way into Vergil's arms as he read. No play fighting, no games of tag, no words — just the sound of their soft breaths and their softer heartbeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dante remembers too; Vergil can almost see the memories glisten in the silvers of his eyes. It's bittersweet, remembering the bliss that once had been but was torn asunder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the bad can overturn the good, Vergil cranes his neck to kiss the crown of Dante's hair, and he can feel how his brother relaxes under that simple affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dante exhales a warm breath, whatever tension that was under his skin disappearing with it, and buries his face into Vergil's chest. He breathes in deep, holds the air in his lungs, and holds onto it like something precious before he finally lets it go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Dante wiggles around a bit more to find his perfect napping position, Vergil wonders what his own scent must be like. A sulfuric tang, like brimstone and fire? Or ozone and frost? Is it sometimes sweet, or does it have a certain spice like Dante's? As adept as he is with words, even Vergil has difficulty pinpointing what exactly makes up the comfort that Dante carries with him. But it is a scent that belongs only to Dante, and Vergil is content with leaving it at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly enough, Dante settles with his head laying on a shoulder, snuggling just up to Vergil's neck. Vergil brings his book back out, perches it on top of Dante's back where he can read it from his angle, but brings one hand to gently scratch at the base of his brother's skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh yeah, that's the spot," Dante almost purrs, melting into the touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vergil breathes out a short laugh and tilts his face to lightly press his cheek against Dante's hair. "You're just like a dog, aren't you? Always seeking attention."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no venom, no heat. Just genuine fondness in his voice when he speaks to Dante, a teasing remark formed out of love instead of spite. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Woof."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vergil rolls his eyes, knowing Dante must be wearing that shit-eating grin even if he can't see it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Dante's breath evens out into quiet little snores, Vergil knows he's fallen back to sleep. It's remarkable how he can fall asleep just like that, which sprouts a concerning question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Dante's always been able to sleep so soundly and so easily, or if he's only had fitfuls of it like Vergil did. If he's only finally able to catch some quality, mind-healing rest because he has Vergil back, no longer plagued by nightmares and anxieties since big brother has returned to keep them away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vergil thinks he gets his answer when the texts on the page turn into inky blurs and his eyelids grow heavy. Dante is a full-grown man with all the weight of one, but it is a solace that chases away the cold of isolation and the dark of emptiness. The strong, slow heartbeat above him calls out to him, tempting him to join and Vergil can't find the will in himself to resist that lullaby. So he closes his book and puts it away, hiding it in between some cushions. He rests one hand on Dante's broad back, the other lightly cradling the back of his head, tucking Dante away into the crook of his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sweet dreams, little brother."</span>
</p>
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